


I Write 'Cause I Know (You'll Forget)

by oliverqueens



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Drabbles, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:31:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverqueens/pseuds/oliverqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of developed scenarios usually stemming from prompts, or, more often than not, my insatiable mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gambling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Team Arrow places bets on Oliver and Felicity's relationship, while she becomes acquainted with his muscle building apparatus of choice: the salmon ladder.

"Alright, alright." Sara's steely grip steered Roy away from what seemed to be the pinnacle of a very heated argument with John. 

Although Roy's gaze was trained solely on Diggle, the other man's seemed to be fixated on a specific spot across the room. In any occasion Sara would have chalked it up to his usual statuesque bodyguard poker face, but she quickly sensed that there had to be more to it than just that. 

It wasn't until Roy hissed beside her that she uncurled her fingers from their grip on his shoulder, earning an incoherent, mumbled complaint from the man himself. 

"What do you two think you're doing?" She prodded, ignoring the whining Abercrombie prototype that stood beside her, mindlessly rubbing small circles on the raw skin where her fingernails had left their mark, "Digg?"

He ignored her at first, looking to Roy as if he were weighing his options. She was not a strong believer in a higher power, but at that moment Sara found herself mumbling—inwardly, of course—fragments of what she believed to be part of a prayer. Diggle's arms were far more dense than Roy's, and she was aware that her nails would be harmless against his inhuman muscle index. It was for that reason alone that she hoped he would not compel her to extract information from his person forcefully. 

Although she was just as well trained as Oliver—maybe even better so, she knew with arms like those, Diggle could scruff her up substantially. 

Thankfully, after a beat or two, his features softened considerably, "we are gambling," he nudged his head toward the opposite side of the room, allowing a tiny smirk to overtake his features for a quick moment, and only just.

Roy snorted, "you make it sound illegal," 

"Because in most cases it is," Digg fired back, shoulders squaring in a manner that Sara would have otherwise found slightly intimidating, had her focus not traveled toward the two figures settled against the wall furthest to them. 

She ignored the bickering men placed at her sides, her two hands pressed firmly against their abdomens serving not only as a barrier between the two, but also as the sole proof of her continued awareness of her surroundings. 

She watched as the broad outline of Oliver placed his unsure hands very gently along the curve of Felicity's hips. They both lacked a significant amount of clothing, which Sara then realized was because he had taken it upon himself to train his trusted accomplice, seeing as he had very recently offered the computer virtuoso herself as bait in his quest to take down Slade. 

He had done the unthinkable then, placing Felicity in a situation where any wrong variable could have terminated her life. So, from then on, undoubtedly due to the guilt that still gnawed at him, even despite Felicity's constant reassurance that she would not have had it any other way, Oliver had committed to giving her more frequent and rigorous self-defense lessons. 

This consequently discontinued Diggle's role in the blonde's training—which she had not yet stopped apologizing about—and left him to guide the moody, and oftentimes downright annoying, man that currently spat a string of curses toward him over Sara's shoulders. 

She ignored the sparring duo as best she could, and continued to analyze the scene unfolding before her eyes.

The tech aficionado sported the same pink spandex workout gear Sara had found her in shortly before things concerning Slade had escalated entirely. She had since committed that day to memory: Felicity had risked her own life to save hers and she was nothing but appreciative of it. Also, Sara had noted, that the outfit suited her figure and hugged her curves incredibly well, and she had been appreciative of that, too.

Seemingly, so had Oliver.

His hands traveled along Felicity's sides in a manner far more gentle than Sara was familiar with, and despite the very distant—very dull—pang of longing she had felt then, she smiled. They had been a long time coming and she was thrilled to serve as witness to their discovery of the fact.

"She's handling that pretty well," she whispered, rejoicing on the silence provided by the men beside her, now both as consumed by the sight as she was. 

"Almost as well as he's handling her—" Roy attempted, and failed, at making a very distasteful comment about Felicity's toned behind. 

The back of Diggle's hand met the man's abdomen with a dull thud, knocking the air out of him for a fleeting second before he reacted, sharply reciprocating the action. 

Sara's hands balled into fists at their fronts and she pushed against them heavily, as if signaling for them stop, on the account that Oliver's senses were inhumanly sharp and he would put a stop to his ministrations as soon as he realized that they were being watched. 

"Grow up, the two of you," Sara hissed, nudging herself further between the men, enough that each side of her hips were pressed squared against their fronts, "I think he's going for it," she noted eagerly, and the two redirected their focus toward them, all arguments aside.

She was surprised, however, to find that instead of leaning down and planting one on her friend, Oliver spun the girl around and brought her back to stand flush against his bare chest. Sara felt Roy's complacency radiate off his entity in waves, which, despite the fact that she could appreciate a nice butt—and Felicity's was incredibly so, still annoyed her.

"I told you he liked her ass," 

His remark was met with a strained "shut up," from both Diggle and Sara.

Felicity looked as though she was struggling to keep herself upright, and Oliver, with his bony digits digging into the curves of her hips, seemed to be more than eager to aid in her support. 

The blonde's reaction was opposite to the timid, bundle of nerves Sara had expected, and often found endearing. Instead of fumbling with words or awkwardly busying her hands with something unnecessary, Felicity squared her shoulders against the broad width of Oliver's torso, and pushed herself further against him, entirely aware of her effects on him. 

Sara took notice on the way Oliver's jaw clenched momentarily, his strong composure wavering as Felicity pushed herself against him, with her head tilted up slightly so that the crook of his neck aligned her gaze with the ceiling. Sara found that slightly odd, though she came to an understanding as soon as Felicity forced Oliver a couple of steps backwards and off the wall they had been resting against. 

Felicity's dainty hands came to rest atop Oliver's where they lied on her hips. The soft pink color coating her nails was a drastic contrast to her usual bold choices. With that thought as a gateway, she soon caught herself thinking about how strikingly Oliver's calloused hands differed from the silkiness of her skin, and how fragile she must have looked standing at his side. 

But as he absentmindedly intertwined his thumb with hers, Felicity decided that despite how rough they felt against her skin, she welcomed his hands anyway. 

Oliver's brows furrowed slightly at her change in demeanor, just as Sara's had, until the girl nudged her chin upward, motioning toward an apparatus that towered over every one of them. Oliver understood then, the reason behind their sudden proximity. 

He knew she had developed quite a fondness toward the salmon ladder, often catching her watching him on it, despite her conviction that she had been subtle about it. 

She hadn't.

With a low and amused huff, he flexed his fingers against her skin one more time before dropping them entirely, and moving to reposition the bar above their heads in order to accommodate her height. 

He watched Felicity struggle to reach it, and found it endearing when she lifted herself up on the tip of her toes, hoping that the momentum would aid in her pursuit. Her efforts were rendered unsuccessful, however, as her fingertips barely seemed to scrape the metal she wished to clutch. 

Without putting much thought behind it—fully aware that he would have never indulged in his desires had his thoughts not been clouded by the view before him—Oliver seized Felicity's incapacity as the perfect opportunity to hold her one last time. 

With his fingers once again gripping her sides, he raised the petite girl toward the apparatus, unceremoniously balancing her just above his shoulders. Once she had the bar in her grasp, he slipped away from underneath her, but kept his hands on her just the same.

She let out a strangled laugh as her legs wiggled about, nearly hitting Oliver square in the nose. She grumbled an apology whilst adjusting her grasp on the metal bar, cursing herself inwardly for spending excessive amounts of her time before a computer screen—and none at the gym. 

Her arms had already started started to cramp, and although she refused to admit so, Oliver had taken notice of the slight quiver beginning to form at the base of her shoulders and quickly spreading to her forearms. 

His hands slid down to steady her, both resting dangerously high on her thighs, and aligning his gaze with a glorious view of her ass. He quickly discarded any—out of very, very many—thoughts that persuaded his fingertips higher. Although taking Felicity and Diggle into his life had finely tuned his moral compass, Oliver was still just a man, and his primal instincts still reigned supreme, allowing him to keep his eyes keen on the girl's bottom. 

"Opportunist!" Roy scoffed, and for the first time that day, Diggle agreed. 

"So he is," Sara shrugged, eyes still lingering on the duo, "she doesn't seem bothered by it." 

"She's just as bad," Roy countered, motioning to the slight arch of Felicity's back as she pulled her chin up to rest against the cold metal, following Oliver's direct instructions.

She was fully aware of the effects she had on the man bellow her, and she wished to become acquainted with every single one.

"I'll give them a few weeks to realize what they mean to one another," Sara offered confidently, only to receive a disapproving look from John.

"We've got fifty down each, to a month at the very least," he said, wrinkling his nose toward Roy, before elaborating, "they're too stubborn."

"Make it a hundred," Sara pursed her lips into a sly smirk, arms crossing against her chest decidedly as she spoke, "I feel like gambling." 

Hardly a week later she was back to collect her dues.


	2. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a very handsy Oliver Queen persuades Felicity Smoak into skinny dipping in the Boston harbor. College AU, requested anonymously.

"Oliver," Felicity sighed, seemingly at a loss for an argument, "are we really doing this?"

He responded with an awe-striking smile, and the consequent removal of his pants. Once he chucked them aside, his hands traveled to the waistband of his boxers, thumbs peeking in with the full intent of lowering them.

At the sight, Felicity turned around abruptly. This was nothing she had not seen before—trusty coed communal shower stalls with faulty locks and all—but somehow, the absence of useless chatter and intoxicating amounts of varying body products, both feminine and masculine, made their current situation all the more disconcerting.

This was Oliver, her Ollie, completely willing to reveal himself before her for a prolonged amount of time. This was no passing glance, they wouldn't sit and laugh at this occurrence later on between themselves and a shared bucket of mint chip.

Or maybe they would, she thought.

With her classes filling up most of her daily schedule, it had been long since Felicity had stepped foot into a gym. Logically, she couldn't guarantee physical perfection, but maybe she could secure a sympathetic laugh?

Her frustration must have been visible in her stance, and audible, too, because Oliver was beside her within seconds of an escaped huff, fingers dancing over the buttons of her shirt, expertly unlatching them whilst she stood there, dumbfounded.

"What are you—"

"Don't overthink it, okay? You need this."

She must have fantasized about that moment well over a hundred times, which was what made it so incredibly disappointing. Nothing about Oliver undressing her this way, as if she were physically incapable of doing it herself, was as sexy and stimulating as she had once imagined it would be.

"I don't need this," she frowned, pursing her lips into a thin, hard line.

She would never go as far as denying her blatant appreciation for a nearly naked Oliver Queen—in this case, a nearly naked, soon to be wet, Oliver Queen—but while Felicity had great respect for his physique, she was certain that not even one sixth of his pack could persuade her into diving into freezing water, let alone fully naked.

"This was your suggestion, Felicity, you have to follow through." There was no fault in his voice as he discarded the shirt from her person, only afterwards turning his attention back to the apprehensive blonde standing before him. "Unless you're too scared, of course." 

"I am not—no, I am not scared, stop that!" She smacked his hands away from the path toward the waistband of her jeans with a quick whack of her own hand, her unoccupied index pressed objectively against his chest with each word she spoke, as if every nag would further his understanding of her standpoint, "I'm not scared of water, Oliver Queen. I am a superb swimmer, in fact, but when I stupidly mentioned that I'd rather dive butt-naked into the Boston harbor than finish my course work in a hormone packed dormitory—I assumed you understood that I did not mean it literally!"

"Felicity," Oliver countered, emphasizing each syllable, "we have a full week designated entirely for poolside binge drinking and I know for a fact that you have not participated in any of it."

"Spring break is meant for studying," she protested, nearly wincing at how incredibly sad it was that she was not dubious in her conviction, and would have otherwise stayed in her dorm room for the remainder of her break, buried in a pile of books, "okay, fine," she ceded, "I see your point."

"Finally," Oliver commemorated with a sole clap, "now, get undressed."

Felicity, very audibly, attempted—and failed—to trap back the laughter threatening to erupt from the base of her throat. "Not a chance in hell."

"But, you just said—"

"I am not getting naked." She entertained the thought of plunging into the ocean then and there, clothes and all, only without ever resurfacing.

"That is very unfair," she could have sworn he almost pouted, "if I'm doing it, you are, too. Plus," he picked at her bra strap, tracing his finger along it until he reached the lace seamed along the neckline.

If his knuckles brushed her breast then, and if she died a little inside, Felicity did not show it. 

"Oliver, believe me, from all of the years I've known you, I've grown very accustomed—and appreciative, really—with your complete lack of inhibitions, and your dislike toward clothing in general," she wiggled her arms about, doing everything possible to keep from reaching out and running a hand along his bare chest—because God, did those muscles look tight and welcoming to her touch, "but," she cleared her throat, very clearly refocusing her attention from his body, "I need you to understand that we are not the same, and while you're running around trying to get me out of my clothes—and comfort zone—I would very much rather stay in both."

He regarded her with a certain intrigue she had never before seen, blue opals inspecting every inch of her face as if he were sizing her up, a small child being reprimanded for some banal wrong doing.

"I am your comfort zone," he stated simply, as if it were the most absolute thing in the world, "get undressed, Felicity. I won't hesitate to bring you in fully clothed."

It was pointless to argue, she knew it, and although she spent the next ten minutes doing exactly that, and despite her utter disbelief toward fate and destinies written among stars, fifteen minutes later Felicity Smoak found herself chastising Oliver Queen—whose bare ass she suddenly had a glorious view of—because he kept peeking as she shrugged herself off her denim pants and underwear. 

"I hate you."

"You don't. This was meant to be."

And suddenly her hair was knotted into a bun and her fingers were laced with his, and in retrospect, she wished she'd gotten a better look at his behind—and the rest of his anatomy—because within seconds, she was under, and the tiny little jabs of ice around her chest and throat were all she knew. Not even the warmth of Oliver's hand pulling her toward his torso—which was probably a sight all in itself, beneath the moonlight and dripping wet, practically oozing sex appeal—could stop her lungs from contracting, air seeming all the more precious then.

"J-Jesus Christ," she gasped, frantically tugging at the hair plastered to her face with the one hand still free from Oliver's grasp, "Jesus f-fucking Christ!"

"No," Oliver grumbled, tugging her so close that her knees, which were curled inwardly against her chest as a feeble attempt of containing any semblance of warmth, were digging into his lower abdomen, "just me, Ollie."

Felicity was unsure whether she felt more disdain toward the loss of the hairband taming her curls, or Oliver's complete lack of comedic timing. 

She supposed, if she were ranking them, she would be at an impasse.

"You're trash," she managed between a shiver or two, and although her words only held the slightest bit of malice, she still did not shrink away as he laced an arm around the small of her back, savoring the feel of her bare skin on his, in fact, she welcomed it, "complete and utter trash."

Oliver would only find out the true extent of the damage brought upon by his spontaneity a week later, while buried in a mountain of blankets and used kleenex, with a serious case of the sniffles and Felicity nursing him back to health. 

Then, however, with her curled up against him chest to chest, practically leeching off any source of warmth she could find—in this case his naked body—he felt almost febrile. 

To say that one Felicity Smoak made one Oliver Queen very hot and bothered, was to speak the complete and utter truth.


	3. He's Grumpy, He's Broke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ex-billionaire Oliver Queen not only babbles, but also has trouble working Felicity's coffee maker.

"Do you need some help?" Felicity asked, finally, after a considerably tedious fifteen minutes of watching Oliver fiddle with the keypad of her coffee maker, the ceramic mug dangling from the curve of his pinky finger coming dangerously close to collapsing each time his index jabbed at the smart screen. 

"I'm fine," he replied sternly, and promptly, though Felicity was aware that she did not possess his undivided attention. 

"I'm more concerned with the wellbeing of my coffee maker," she admitted halfheartedly, taking the remaining steps necessary to close the distance between the grumpy ex-billionaire and her preoccupied self, "really, you're going to break it." 

She wrapped the dainty digits of her left hand around the width of his wrist, simultaneously removing the pendulous mug from his hold with her right, before directing him away from the expensive machinery. 

"What is going on with you?" Although demanding, Felicity's tone was laced with a nurturing softness Oliver welcomed, like the one of a mother toward her child, or a teacher toward her pupil. 

The comparison made him wince, and rip his hand away from the blonde's grasp. Any maternal connection drawn between Oliver and Felicity was incredibly disconcerting to him, seeing as he saw her as anything but. Really, absolutely _anything_. "It was telling me to throw the powder in, package and all—which is a ridiculous request all in its own, because really, where does it even go? And when I did put it in there, despite my reservations, it told me an error was occurring. Of course an error is occurring, there is plastic mixed in with my cappuccino!" 

If Felicity faced any struggle with containing her laughter, she did not show it. It rang loud and clear, bouncing off the walls of her small kitchen, even causing Oliver—stealthy, cool and collected Oliver—to jump on the spot. 

"We have been spending way too much time together," she noted, between fits of broken laughter coupled with a few unrequited snorts, "we need to find you an apartment, pronto. I'm turning you into a monster."

Staying with Felicity had changed him, Oliver would not deny her this, but he was certain that not even the sight of him tripping over his own words—or of how expressive he had become, even in relation to modern technology—would ever be as monstrous and alarming as Felicity's coffee maker. 

He absolutely hated that thing.


End file.
